


Primer

by Deriliarch



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Just mentioned but emetephobia warning, internalized ableism, vomiting mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21542674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deriliarch/pseuds/Deriliarch
Summary: “Go away, Elijah.”A wide smile spread across the man's pale face and he turned to the doorbell camera, though Carl knew there was no screen to look at. “Ah, Carl. Good to hear from you.”“You’re on my porch, idiot, of course you're hearing from me."--------Carl would like to wallow in his lonely pity party, thank you very much.Elijah has a present named Markus he's going to give to him, one way or another.
Relationships: Elijah Kamski & Carl Manfred, Original Chloe | RT600 & Carl Manfred
Comments: 11
Kudos: 47





	Primer

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know where this is going, but I just wanted to write the scene where Carl meets Markus. This might turn into a longer sequence where we see his and Markus' relationship develop and how they change each other, but for now, I need to STOP starting fics ;-;

The doorbell gave a distant chime. Carl fucking hated it when it did that. He grimaced and ran a hand over his face, palm burning with the patchy scruff he couldn’t seem to grow well anymore and hauled himself upright with difficulty, fingers digging into the sticky back of the leather couch. Why the fuck was it sticky? Eugh. He didn’t want to know if he couldn’t remember. A bottle clunked off his lap and onto the priceless, handwoven rug at his feet, glugging warmed whiskey deep into its fibers as he manhandled his floppy feet around. His head rang like...like...a fucking headache.

The chime came again. 

Christ. Must be some new recruit to those door-to-door fanatics--all the others knew to stay far clear of the long driveway with the mean washout at the end. Didn’t take them a second time, usually. 

“Leave your shitty Chick tracts and beat it,” he called. Or meant to. His voice was gravelly and clogged with disuse and it didn’t make its way into the foyer; much like its owner.

Again, a cheerful cling-clang-clong that made him want to tear the damn thing out of the wall and give him some peace. The little holo-display on the armrest of his wheelchair was throwing up a little rotating blue cube with the bright words ‘Message Request: Front Door’ hovering inside. Groaning a disgusted curse, he dragged himself half over the arm of the sofa and swiped at it irritably. The stupid thing came to life under his fingertips with a pretentious little purr and wave of LEDs, shining down the sleek metal sides like it was a goddamn movie theater. At his touch, it carefully maneuvered the detritus of bottles and discarded wrappers and books and other shit on his floor to sit like a smug poodle in front of the couch. He scraped his hair back from his face and stabbed a finger through the floating image. 

The cube of light bloomed out into a translucent, full color screen. On his front porch stood a young man in the style-bending outfit of an immaculate charcoal suit pant and jacket over a pale blue tank top and suspenders. His dark hair was long, his face smug, and his companion a young-looking, sweet faced blonde in a flowery sundress. 

“Go away, Elijah.”

A wide smile spread across the man's pale face and he turned to the doorbell camera, though Carl knew there was no screen to look at. “Ah, Carl. Good to hear from you.”

“You’re on my porch, idiot, of course you're hearing from me. Told you to get. I’m not in the mood.”

His translucent image nodded sadly. "I would do that Carl, I really would,” he said with something that was indistinguishable from sincerity but definitely wasn’t. “But I have something for you.”

“Is it more booze?”

Elijah tapped his chin thoughtfully and wrapped an arm around Chloe who pressed into his side with a tolerant smile. “Mm, no. Perhaps something more helpful.”

“Cocaine?” Carl drawled dryly and watched a flash of impatience come and go in the man’s eyes before he smiled that glossy smile again.

“Even better.”

“Get  _ outta _ here. Not interested.”

With a sigh that had a little too much edge to be entirely feigned, Elijah let his eyes wander away from the camera, gazing up at the doors in front of him thoughtfully. “You know, I helped design these doors, back in the day. Sophisticated system, really; elegant in their simplicity. It's really a shame what needs to be done to them to override it--the artistry in the carving is just exquisite.”

Carl growled. “Fucker.”

Agreeably, Elijah bobbed his head. “Can’t argue with that.” He managed to reign in that insufferable smile Carl  _ knew _ was held behind his teeth because he knew this tenacious bastard and how much he liked to win.

And he knew he just had. 

“Permit entry,” he grumbled and a chipper tinkle rang out from both the chair and the front door. 

A part of him was still unanesthetized enough to want to try and hide some of the dishevelment, shove some of the trash under the couch, straighten his rumpled self. But there was no covering the stink of booze and unwashed clothes and he hadn’t asked for visitors anyway. It was their fault if they didn’t like what they saw. He sat, belligerent and cross armed as footsteps echoed through the foyer towards the sitting room. Chloe blew in like a breeze, danced delicately through the minefield of junk as if it weren’t even there, all long limbs and sunny smile. She leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Hi, Uncle Carl. Long time no see.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but he felt a corner of his mouth tick up reluctantly. Reaching up, he patted her cool cheek. “You too, sweetheart.”

Elijah entered at a more stately pace with his hands tucked in his trouser pockets, eyes scanning the room with nothing but mild curiosity showing. All bullshit. Chloe plopped herself next to Carl and he started to protest that she  _ really _ didn’t want to be on this couch--hell,  _ he _ didn’t even really want to be on it--but Elijah swung back to look at him and flashed that blade of a smile. All veneer and hidden danger. “So. How’ve you been?”

“You bullied your way in here to give me something. What is it so you can get out again?”

Elijah sighed as Chloe made a small, sad sound beside him. He refused to look over. They had invited themselves in. It was Elijah’s fault. 

“Fine. You can come in.” His ice blue eyes hadn’t moved from Carl’s face and, for a moment, his whiskey soaked brain was confused enough that he didn’t immediately grasp the implications until he saw someone come into the room from the corner of his eye. Elijah continued as Carl struggled to refocus his old, shitty, drunk gaze on this new intruder, “This is Markus, a one of a kind RK200 home-care technician model that I designed to help you out around the house.”

If Elijah was all ice and metal in his coloring, this Android was sun and softness. It was a golden brown with warm undertones, dressed in an artfully asymmetrical dark teal shirt that warmed its complexion. The face was striking, pleasant, and slightly empty, as all Androids but Chloe’s seemed to be.

It also happened to be built like a fucking Greek God and had pale green eyes that stood out against its coloring like it was some sort of anime character. Jesus fucking Christ, Elijah, really? 

“What the fuck,” he grated.

Breezing onward, as if Carl hadn’t even spoken, Elijah continued. “I heard that you had fired your nurse and hadn’t hired anyone else. I figured that you could use some help.”

He did not even want to  _ know _ how that little shit knew that. The brief speculation alone hurt his already throbbing head. “And you supposedly built it that quick,” he said flatly, looking it up and down. It watched him back with a small, bland smile, hands linked behind its back. 

“I started building him when you fired your  _ first  _ nurse.”

The liquor in his gut was starting to burn along with his humiliated rage, that sort of nausea you wish you could just throw up to get rid of. Maybe he would throw up on Elijah’s shoes. “You know what,  _ Kamski _ , I don’t need your fuckin’ charity--”

He was met with a light, patronizing scoff. “Oh no, Carl, I  _ donate _ to charity. This is a favor for a friend.”

He vented a disgusted noise. “Yeah, well I don't need any...favors, either." He ran his eyes over the thing again, still standing there, complacent as you please as it was bartered away. "So you think I'm just an old pervert, huh?” 

“I like beautiful things,” Elijah said with dignity and straightened his crisp lapel. “And so do you. Whatever else you infer is your own complex, Manfred. Though,” he added in the tone of a car salesman pointing out an interesting feature. “In case you are so inclined, he  _ is  _ fully equipped.”

“Eugh, Jesus fucking Christ, Elijah, you’re depraved.” Carl glanced at Chloe out of the corner of his eye, but she was just watching the volley of conversation with interest, round face open and relaxed. He groaned and rubbed his sore eyes. “You're exhausting to be around, you know that? Ever wonder why you haven't been over for dinner in years?"

Abruptly, all cheerful plasticity dropped from his act and that Elijah-Kamski-intensity came to the fore, lasering through his eyes, tightening his body like a bowstring. “No, I  _ know _ why I haven't,” he replied with a quiet heat.

That scrutiny laid him open bare. An old, crippled, drunk, unwashed, defeated has-been. Living on his dirty ass couch in his dirty ass sitting room, surviving on whiskey, Shakespeare, and reality TV. Pissing in bottles because he had fired the only person who was contractually obligated to help him get to the toilet. A once-great, partied-too-hard-and-broke-his-damn-self wreck. He had art in the Louvre and he couldn’t even make himself get into his stupid wheelchair.

No one liked that fucking view.

He scowled, waved a hand and looked away, back at the Android Elijah had brought, still watching him, still quiet. "You know the only reason you're in here is because I knew you'd tear down the fucking doors cause you don't know what the word 'no' means.”

“I’m here because I know how you work, Carl. It’s why I made him. It’s why I know you’ll take him. You don’t like living like this. And I hate  _ seeing _ you like this. If you want to call it a favor to  _ me _ , that’s your prerogative; whatever helps you get through the night. But I know that Chloe and I will sleep better knowing that the great Carl Manfred isn’t going to die choking on his own vomit because he was too proud and too stubborn to let someone help him when he needed it. You’re not an idiot, Carl, so don’t act like one.” Elijah’s voice had slowly sharpened throughout until it was a cutting snap and when Carl finally looked back at him, he saw one of the first undoctored expressions of the day--frustration. 

Letting his lips purse and jaw jut thoughtfully, Carl watched Elijah clear his throat and toss his hair back over his shoulder straightening his suspenders. Everything back in order. Chloe made a gentle noise and reached out to him. Without looking, Elijah took her hand and schooled his face into a haughty expectancy. But Carl knew better.

"Androids can’t lose sleep."

Elijah let out an aggrieved tut and rolled his eyes but some of that tension melted away. “I don't hear a logical argument--you’ll take him, then?” 

With a grimace, Carl looked at the RK200 again. It raised its eyebrows and gave a wider smile and, suddenly, it seemed younger and more innocent than its athletic frame told his human sensibilities. It looked younger than Leo when it did that. Carl didn’t think he liked that.

“I’m not gonna stop drinking,” he growled, finally. “Its not my fucking doctor--I tell that guy to take a hike every time he calls me.”

“Markus is programmed to be professional and agreeable,” Elijah said in a tone that was clearly meant to be taken as acquiescence, even though that’s not even remotely close to what he said. 

_ What a bullshit artist this kid's turned into _ , Carl thought, fondly.

“Bastard. Fine. I’ll take it for a test run--only for you guys. And if it gives me lip, I’m sending it right back.”

Elijah smiled his slow, shark smile that shouldn’t look quite so sinister for someone claiming to be helping a friend. “I highly doubt that--you would send him back if he didn’t.”

They left quite agreeably after that, having successfully executed their immaculate plan from breached defenses to devastating final blow. Elijah had just sauntered out, pleased as a puffed peacock when Chloe suddenly turned back to Carl, leaning down to curl a gentle hand over his shirt collar, the backs of her perfect fingers brushing his clavicle. Not a threat, but not quite warm familiarity-- 'hey,’ it said, ‘Listen up.’ Her gentle face was as serious as he had ever seen it as she brought it down level to his. “Take care of him,” she said quietly.

Elijah? Or this new Android?

Carl blinked. She didn’t.

"Of course, sweetheart.”

Chloe relaxed and, like a switch, that bright smile was back as if it had never left. She patted his shirt back into place, kissed his forehead, and was gone in a breath of Kamski’s expensive cologne. 

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, that was something ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> The most interesting thing about writing Carl at this point in his life is that he clearly just thinks of Androids as 'things' but he sees Chloe as a person and hasn't reflected on that sort of hypocrisy within himself, yet.
> 
> Carl: why did you make my son so hot that's super gross  
> Elijah: your what  
> Carl: my notHING GET OFF MY LAWN


End file.
